


Dance in the Graveyards

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU Reichenbach: Sherlock is ACTUALLY dead, Dance in the Graveyards, Delta Rae, Gen, Let's Write Sherlock, Magical Realism, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock and John being goofy and probably OOC, challenge 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is drawn out of his flat by a mysterious light that leads him to a very familiar cemetery. Post-Reichenbach, hints of magical-realism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance in the Graveyards

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the music video for "Dance in the Graveyards" by Delta Rae, which can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lPOM0IUsd_0
> 
> As soon as I first heard this song it inspired something, but then I saw the music video, cried at it a lot, and then wrote this.

John didn’t remember walking outside.

He stopped on the front steps, the darkness of night a blanket on his shoulders. The earth thrummed beneath his feet, like a misplaced heartbeat, and his eyes widened.

_There it was._

Just above the tree line, was a glittering light. It was just bright enough to compete with the street lamps above John’s head, and yet it didn’t drown out a single star above.

“What are you?” John murmured, curling his toes into the ground. There was the distant hum of a cab and the rocking of wind between ancient London homes, all corralled beneath his feet with that _incessant_ drum beat in the ground. For some reason, John paid it very little heed, his eyes locked on the bright light.

This was the third day he’d seen it. Every night, for the past three days, he was awoken to this green hue dusting his windowsill, yet he was always trapped enough in sleep to forgo its pursuit. Tonight was different. Why it was different, John couldn’t explain. It just _was._

It was unnerving to see no one on the streets, or sidewalks, or alleyways, or _anywhere._ As a matter of fact, as John walked aimlessly, he turned and realized that even all the cabs that patrolled for late-night clubbers had somehow vanished.

John turned back around. He was in a forest. _Had he been in a forest before?_ He turned around to glance at the road and instead found a worn dirt path at his heels, bordered with trees. He found that it didn’t bother him.

When he turned back, his breath caught in his throat. The green light was there, in the clearing before him. It hovered like a firefly, as if it were living. Beneath its green circumference it lit the tops of the headstones, crosses and plaques that were scattered about the clearing.

A cemetery.

The cemetery sent a chill down John’s spine; he was very familiar with this place. How he’d gotten all the way out here, to the very edges of London, escaped him; he thought perhaps he wandered here in a trance.

 _Was I drugged?_ John wondered to himself. But no, he’d just been asleep in his flat when the light appeared again. He was almost positive of it.

John slugged through the grass towards the closest headstone, black marble with sharp edges. It’d been weathered throughout the past few years, and was a bit overgrown. John was facing it’s back but he could see the edges of a potted plant that had been abandoned at the stone’s foot.

John’s heart sank to his stomach, and he felt a bit sick.

“Hello?” John called into the night. His voice sounded hoarse and foreign to his own ears. “Is there someone here?” The earth continued to beat beneath him. It took John a moment to realize he was stepping in time with the beat, and that he had been the entire time he’d been walking. He stopped at the back of the headstone, just a breath from brushing it.

John didn’t _want_ to stand beside the grave, but something was compelling him forward. It was as if his feet and his head had stopped communicating altogether, although he found he didn’t question it. It was nice, having someone else in control.

However, he didn’t really want to look at it, either, so he turned away, looking instead at a headstone nearby. It was newer than the one he stood at, for an elderly woman. Her epitaph was a bit odd.

_When I die_

_I don’t want to_

_Rest in Peace_

_I want to_

_Dance in Joy_

“Hmm,” John murmured. He glanced at his watch; it was two forty-five in the morning, and he was standing in a cemetery that was almost ten miles from where he lived, with almost no memory of walking there.

The beat was now so strong his heart was beating in time. He stared down at the headstone, and finally gave in. He leaned over and placed his hand along the top, gripping it with his fingers and simply not moving.

“I’m losing my mind,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I’m losing my mind and I’m alright with it.” And he was. He wasn’t alarmed that he wasn’t alarmed at how he’d ended up at Sherlock Holmes’s grave. It was truly fine.

“I think we both are,” a voice agreed from behind his right shoulder. John stiffened, eyes snapping open, still holding the top of the gravestone. The green light pulsated gently just out of his peripheral vision.

With an exhale John turned on his heel and came face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes. He was standing just a bit too close to John, as he always did, almost looking down his nose because he was so close and so _tall._ John took a step back in surprise, knocking the backs of his knees into the tombstone and almost toppling over.

“Sher—” was all John could get out before Sherlock shushed him. He extended his hand and John took it, completely overwhelmed with the sight before him. Sherlock was _there,_ at his own grave, standing before him, wearing a white Oxford and black trousers, looking like an overgrown public schoolboy but he was _there—_

Sherlock led them around the stone, into the unnatural glow. As they walked, John’s eyes widened as Sherlock’s silhouette blurred in the light. He was _there_ , and yet, not there at all. John’s heartbeat slowed in pace as they walked, Sherlock walking backwards.

John wasn’t surprised that he could see through Sherlock’s sheer body.

“John,” Sherlock muttered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. John didn’t like how… _demure_ he sounded. It didn’t fit the detective at all. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Nor do I,” John responded, eyes traveling up his long face. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You,” Sherlock said simply. There was a sharp intake of breath, and John stared up into those _eyes._ Sherlock’s face didn’t change at all; he watched John with that same inquisitive expression in which he watched the world around him.

“That’s all?” John asked, still holding tightly to Sherlock’s hand. John couldn’t describe the feel of Sherlock’s hand if he tried; all he felt was joy. Sherlock gave a short nod. His eyes darted from John to their surroundings, as if just noticing they were in a cemetery. John wondered if this specter (of his imagination?) knew his own truth.

 “Do you know how to dance?” John suddenly blurted. Sherlock creased his brow in confusion. That was _not_ what John had wanted to ask—he wanted to ask Sherlock if he knew he was gone, if he knew what he’d done, if he knew _anything_ , is there a heaven? (they wouldn’t let Sherlock in if there was), could he see him again—

“Is this an appropriate time for such a question?” Sherlock inquired. John wanted to laugh at how familiar this chiding tone was.

“Sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me,” John admitted, glancing up into the night sky. The stars had turned bright green. “I was just compelled to ask. I think—I think we’re supposed to dance.”

“That is idiotic,” Sherlock said, but he pulled John close, his left hand settling just below his shoulder. John didn’t want to reach, so he simply took hold of Sherlock’s arm. He felt warm.

“Have you ever danced before?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head, staring down at his own feet. John was still being driven by the heartbeat of the soil beneath him, and without a moment’s notice, he pulled Sherlock close to his chest and forced him to dance.

Calling it a dance was a bit generous, considering that John himself wasn’t _that_ great, and he’d never played lead to another man. Sherlock had less than zero natural rhythm, and the two of them side-stepped gravestones to make an awkward circle. Sherlock just watched John the entire time, one eyebrow cocked in confusion.

They made three circles to the beat John was following, not saying a word, until Sherlock pulled away from John to instead wrap his arms around him and pull him against his chest. John, only to Sherlock’s shoulder, buried his face in his shirt, slowly bringing his arms around Sherlock’s lower back. It was probably the only hug they’d ever shared, and John wasn’t entirely sure it was happening.

“I’m rubbish at dancing,” John said into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I noticed,” Sherlock replied.

“You’re not much better,” John defended.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed. Silence. It dug into John, into them both. John could hear the shift of Sherlock’s breath as he tried and failed to find words. (Did he even breathe?) John knew what Sherlock wanted to ask, but he willed his friend, for once, to swallow his words.

He did not.

“John… where have I been?” Sherlock asked. John couldn't answer right away.

“You’re… dead, Sherlock,” John said, hanging onto Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “You died two years ago.” Sherlock didn’t respond. John closed his eyes. Sherlock smelled familiar. “You died and I buried you right here, Sherlock. Me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Molly, and Lestrade, and everyone you left behind. Just on the outskirts of the city so you can always watch the comings and goings of all of London.” Sherlock tightened his grip.

“I visit you every year,” John added, squeezing his eyelids, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to fall. “I come on your birthday every year. And… on _that_ day.” He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s upper back. “I bring flowers with me e-every time.”

“They’re just going to die,” Sherlock said softly. John’s shoulders trembled.

“I-I know,” he responded, a single tear escaping. The tear dropped onto Sherlock’s shoulder and then through it, soaking into the grass beneath their feet. John’s watch beeped at the hour. It was three a.m.

_If this is insanity, I’m fine with it._

Sherlock chuckled into John’s greying hair, and John almost wanted to punch him. Sherlock pulled away from John, hands on his former partner’s shoulders, arms’ length away. John just stared up at Sherlock, suddenly aware that he was barefoot and his feet were _very_ cold.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice clearing. Sherlock was looking over his left shoulder at his own headstone, shining in the glare of the starlight.

“I’ve always thought you were as mad as me,” Sherlock suddenly admitted, a wicked smile spreading across his face. Sherlock released John’s shoulders and instead took up both his hands, pulled him forward and then released him into a spin that tripped John up completely.

And unexpectedly, Sherlock had all of his usual energy, for spinning and… jumping and _skipping_ around the graveyard like a child. John just furrowed his brow, leaning on Sherlock’s headstone when Sherlock came back for him, pulling him into a small opening and forcing him into a crazy dance. It was completely unlike Sherlock and yet somehow fit perfectly with his personality. John couldn’t imagine that orderly waltzes were Sherlock’s preferred dance.

Sherlock spun John again, this time in a more controlled motion, and John fell back into the grass with a _thud._ John blinked, startled, looked up at Sherlock, smiled, and then _laughed._

Sherlock stopped his insane footwork to watch John sit in the wet grass, barefoot, laughing to himself. For John, it was such a foreign feeling that it hurt his chest. It wasn’t that he hadn’t found anything funny or amusing since Sherlock passed, but… real, heart-pounding _laughter_ hadn’t been a part of his life in a _very_ long time.

“Come, John, time is running out!” Sherlock called in his case-tone, although that wild smile was still in place.

“We’re not on a case, you idiot!” John cried as Sherlock pulled him to his feet. John’s cheeks began to sting from the smile on his face. He glanced up, and noticed the green light seemed to be lighting the moon as well. John closed his eyes for a brief moment as Sherlock pulled him to his chest, always just a bit too close.

 _I want to dance in the graveyards,_ he thought. He wondered just how right that headstone was.

_If this is insanity, I prefer it._

* * *

John woke up to sweat-soaked skin and a pounding heart, staring at his ceiling. His breaths came in terse, short gasps and he rolled onto his side, groping for the glass of water he kept with him at all times. He grabbed the bedside light and turned it on, picking up the glass as he went. He downed it in a gulp and turned to the window, looking outside into the night sky.

Nothing. No light, not even any stars. It was cloudy, a holdover from the day’s rain. John’s shoulders drooped and he slunk back into his pillows, the glass sitting on his stomach.

 _It was just a dream._ John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to quell the intense ache in his chest. _Just a dream, John. You’ve had more vivid dreams before._

 _Never of Sherlock,_ he thought. _Never as happy as that._

John glanced about his bare room, his cane hanging from the back of his desk chair, reflecting the light from the lamps outside. A cab screeched as it turned just underneath his window, and someone was yelling into a mobile a block away.

 _Just a dream._ Defeated, John threw back his covers, deciding on tea to take away the sting of having Sherlock so close. He swung his feet onto the floor and stood, using the desk as leverage.

As he stood, he noticed that his feet stung in an odd way. He sighed, glancing down.

“Oh, what is—” John began, bemoaning his aging appendages, when he saw that his bare feet were actually very… dirty. There was fresh glass clippings and dark dirt and his feet were a bit wet and definitely very cold…

John didn’t need to take a second look. He threw open the door of his room, ran down the stairs and out the front door of his flat, standing on the landing where he was before.

“Sherlock?” he called, as loud as he could. “Sherlock!”

The only answer came from the rustle of the trees through a breeze that only John could feel.


End file.
